


seasons don't fear

by alchemystique



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-24
Updated: 2017-08-24
Packaged: 2018-12-19 07:40:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11893110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alchemystique/pseuds/alchemystique
Summary: He is gentle. It comes as a surprise, to her, after seeing the way he wields a sword, the intensity of his gaze, the permanent brood he wears like more armor. But his hands, calloused and rough, glide over her skin softly, and his lips press against her with a softness she’s not entirely sure she’s ever experienced before.





	seasons don't fear

He is gentle. It comes as a surprise, to her, after seeing the way he wields a sword, the intensity of his gaze, the permanent brood he wears like more armor. But his hands, calloused and rough, glide over her skin softly, and his lips press against her with a softness she's not entirely sure she's ever experienced before. 

It is disconcerting - odd and strange and unexpected, and yet, it reminds her of the way his gaze would dart away from hers when caught looking; the way he'd turn his head up and look at the sky when he was uncertain. 

The intensity of him though, that she'd expected. The way he moved, the way he looked at her, the shift of his face and his eyes and his body over, under, around hers. Even now, curled against his side, her fingers daring to trace up over his belly towards the scar on his chest, the strength of his gaze feels as though it might glare a hole straight into the side of her head.

It makes her feel powerful. Powerful in a way she’s never felt before, a way she can’t truly describe, here with him as equals in this world and in this fight. She’s lived her life engaged in some sort of power struggle with every man she’s ever met, and yet, when Jon Snow had knelt before her, and scraped the scruff of his beard against the inside of her leg, glancing up at her with dark eyes and the down turned hint of that strange smile of his, she’d not felt as though either of them were vying for something. 

He is something altogether different than she is used to, a strange man in a strange land, and yet, she feels as though she understands him better than anyone in the world. As though he might understand her in a way no one ever has, no matter how they’ve tried.

“You lied to me,” she says softly, into the spray of dark curled hair spread about the pillow, and he hums, something low and guttural and she squeezes her thighs together at the sound. Her fingers slide along the edge of the scar.  


He doesn’t ask her what she means, but he uses the hand not furled into her riotous hair to reach for her fingers, curling her delicate digits into the rough of his palm.

“Are you questioning my honor?”  


If it were anyone else, she would have automatically assumed she was being teased, but she has to tilt her head up to catch the curl of his lip as the amused expression flashes away from his face. He’s such a serious man, and again she feels a surge of that new power run through her veins at the realization that he is very much joking with her.

She curls her fingers around his hand, squeezes his thumb, affection rising in her heart at the sleepy way his eyes blink and focus on her. 

“How did you survive such a wound?” she asks, knowing the answer before he can even let his gaze drift away, toward the high beams above them.   


He is quiet for a long time, long enough she is certain she won’t receive an answer, and it occurs to her that by this point she might have demanded an answer from any other man. 

“When I allowed the Wildling’s in from beyond the Wall, my brothers argued against it. Loudly, and then quietly where no one could hear. It didn’t sit well with them. They decided I wasn’t fit to be Lord Commander any more.”  


He squeezes her hand, darts a quick glance at her, and his cheeks rush with pink at the focus of her gaze on his face. His eyes shift back towards the beams as he sucks in a deep breath, the hollow of his throat cast in sharp relief by the movement, and Dany has to swallow the urge to dip her tongue into it. 

“They each got a turn at me, down to the youngest, a boy named Ollie. He - that was the one that ended me.”

Slowly, delicately, she leans forward, presses her lips against the curved line - a reminder of all he’s sacrificed, a reminder that something, somewhere, saw the same potential in him that Dany saw. He lets out a deep breath, her mouth dipping against his chest, and she can feel his fingers tighten in her hair, no doubt the same sort of thought on his mind - he is here, he is alive, and that is all that matters.

“They didn’t burn your body.”

He has burn scars - the one on his palm cuts into her skin even now - but she knows this body is littered with memories of his life, uncleansed by fire. For a moment she almost hates him for it, wishes desperately that his return to life had been the same as hers.

“Davos wouldn’t let them. He should have. The risk he took -.” His voice, deep and grumbling, gets lower still as he chides the man she rarely sees away from his side.

“He loves you,” she whispers against his skin, all too aware that bringing that word into the room with them is dangerous.

“Aye.”

When he shifts, Dany bites back a mournful groan at the loss of him, but he only turns to his side, the arm underneath her neck dragging across the space between them, allowing him to raise his free hand to her face, brushing hair behind her ear as he watches her with an intensity she is already worryingly used to.

He says nothing, just watches her with heavy lidded eyes, nothing careful or hidden about the expression on his face. 

It is... terrifying, in it’s enormity, the things he manages to convey without a word, whether he means to or not, and worse yet is that Dany knows for certain they are reflected back in her own face. 

She can’t think of a single time she’s ever felt this way before.

Perhaps that is why she tells him. 

“I walked into my husbands funeral pyre,” she tells him in barely more than a whisper, and it sounds so utterly ludicrous, but nothing in his expression changes. Perhaps after dragons, and White Walkers, and a resurrection of his own, it’s not all that ridiculous. “I died in those flames.” 

She’s never spoken a word of this before. In the madness, in the chaos of arising amidst the ashes the next morning with three dragons, no one had ever thought to wonder how she survived.

A thumb drifts over the curve of her jaw, curling down towards her throat. 

“We’re a fucking pair, aren’t we?”  


Dany laughs, choking back the lump in her throat at the sight of his pleased grin, and she presses forward, unable to hold back the need to kiss him again. He groans, that low, deep noise she wants to hear a thousand times, a thousand different ways, and for while it’s easy to forget about the world around them and the hundreds of ways it’s done them wrong.


End file.
